


This Kiss

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh for fucks sake,” Daryl grunted. He raised Glenn’s hand to his mouth, brushed his lips quickly against the wound. “There. Fuckin’ baby.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Post Episode 106

The hunting cabin consisted of one room. A table and two rickety chairs, single cot, moth-eaten sofa and rust-covered sink, everything blanketed in a thick layer of dust. To Glenn, after spending half the day trekking through dense overgrowth and the other half fighting his way through brambles that clutched at his jeans like greedy hands, after setting traps and learning how to mark their locations, after a day of sun and sweat and hard labour... every grimy inch looked like a slice of heaven.

Daryl set their duffel bag down at his feet. “This’ll do,” he said.

“It’ll do?” Glenn repeated incredulously. “There are walls. This place has walls! And an actual bed!” Glenn continued. The thought of not having to sleep on a blanket of rotten leaves filled him with glee, something that not even the sight of dirty linens or Daryl’s sour face could discourage.

“Keep your fucking voice down,” Daryl warned.

He pointed at the crooked door notched in the back wall, and Glenn’s eyes widened as he swallowed. His quick perusal of the room had completely missed the second door. He gave Daryl a sickly grin, spoke barely above a whisper. “Probably a bedroom, right? Gotta be empty. This place is deserted. Right?”

“Guess we’re gonna find out,” Daryl said just as quietly.

When Daryl lifted the crossbow to his shoulder and pointed again, Glenn shook his head. Daryl pointed more vehemently, added in a nod toward the door and some gritted teeth for good measure, and Glenn hung his head and shuffled forward and wondered why it always had to be _him_ that went first. Except that he knew why. If he opened that door and a walker came shambling out, spitting and clawing, it would be Daryl’s marksmanship that brought it down, swiftly and cleanly. But _knowing_ didn’t make it any easier to press his ear to the door, trying to hold his breath as he listened for movement within. _Knowing_ didn’t make it any easier to grasp the doorknob with a sweat-slick palm.

He took a deep breath before twisting the doorknob quickly, yanking it open and dancing back in a single movement, already raising his baseball bat over his shoulder for a killing blow. The door swung open, bounced against the opposite wall and then hung at an awkward angle, and Glenn let out a shaking breath as Daryl slowly released the tension from his shoulders and let the crossbow dangle in his hands.

Nothing in the second room but a chemical toilet, half a roll of toilet paper, and a large beetle trundling over a tattered and yellowed copy of _Field and Stream_.

“Jesus,” Glenn murmured.

Daryl snorted, placed the crossbow within easy reach on the scarred table. “Need a new pair o’ panties there, chinaman?”

“Yeah, like you didn’t just shit your pants,” Glenn muttered.

If Daryl heard him he gave no sign. He merely stalked toward the cot, tugged at the stained comforter until it pooled at his feet. He nodded once. “We’ll block the window with this,” he said. He shook the blanket experimentally, sending a flurry of dust motes to dance in the last beams of dying light stuttering through the panes of the single window. When Glenn didn’t move, he shook the comforter again. “Well, _c’mon_.”

Glenn sighed, took one end of the blanket and reached up to hook it over the old fishing reel that the cabin’s owner had used as an impromptu rod, currently holding only a pair of sheer curtains that had once been white. He didn’t see the nail, only felt it scrape across his thumb and then the sharp bite of pain. He hissed, withdrew his hand hastily and grimaced at the dark well of blood that trickled from the wound. He glanced at Daryl in time to see him arch a brow.

“Nail,” he said weakly. Rusty nail, his mind filled in. _Rusty_ nail, and everybody knows that’s how you get tetanus, and there are no more doctors, dumbfuck. You’re going to survive the rise of the walking dead and die from fucking tetanus because of a goddamn rusty nail.

He watched the blood bubble from the cut and slide toward his palm in sick fascination; looked up in time to see Daryl shake his head and sigh. “Jesus,” Daryl muttered, letting the comforter fall into place before striding across the room. He leaned down to swipe the duffel bag from the floor, dumped it unceremoniously on the battered counter next to the tiny sink. “C’mon, we gotta clean that out.”

When Daryl pulled a T-shirt from the bag and ripped a strip of cotton from the hem, Glenn opened his mouth to protest – he only had three shirts, and that one was his favourite – before closing it abruptly. It wasn’t like there was anything else to use. He waited stiffly, thumb poised over the sink, trying not to watch the thick red droplets plunk onto the cracked porcelain, while Daryl used some of their precious water to dampen the fabric.

Daryl’s hands when they gripped his were hard and calloused, but gentle. Glenn let his hand be turned palm up, grimaced in anticipation of the sting. He wasn’t disappointed, the swipe of wet fabric against the ragged cut and the pressure causing him to hiss again in pain. He watched the corners of Daryl’s lips twitch, and frowned. “You get off on hurting people?” he grumbled.

“Nah,” Daryl said. “Just think you’re a fucking wuss.”

“It hurts, okay?”

“It’s a scratch!” Daryl said. “Jesus, I get worse nicks than this stringin’ my fucking bow.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real tough guy,” Glenn muttered. He looked away as Daryl efficiently cleaned the wound, then glared down at the angry gash, the sluggish flow of blood staunched by the pressure Daryl had applied. “It _does_ hurt,” he said stubbornly.

“Oh for fucks sake,” Daryl grunted. He raised Glenn’s hand to his mouth, brushed his lips quickly against the wound. “There. Fuckin’ baby.”

Glenn was sure his heart stopped, two or three seconds of complete stillness in his chest before it started up again at double-time. Daryl still held his hand in a loose grip and was staring at the gash on Glenn’s finger, his brows drawn together as if he couldn’t understand what he’d just done, and Glenn didn’t even think about what happened next. He just took a step forward to close the distance between them, the brim of his baseball cap nudging at Daryl’s chin. Daryl blinked, raised his head. And Glenn shifted a half-inch forward, rested his left hand carefully on Daryl’s hip and balanced lightly on the balls of his feet.

Daryl’s lips were dry, unyielding against his. When Daryl gasped they parted just slightly, and Glenn lapped quickly at his bottom lip before withdrawing enough to see Daryl’s wide shocked eyes, his mouth slack before he pushed out with both hands, roughly shoved him away.

“I ain’t no fag!” Daryl spluttered. He stalked across the room, spun when he reached the door and whirled back. When he swiped his mouth across his forearm, spat on the floor in disgust, Glenn knew he should be insulted – “I don’t have cooties” rose unbidden to his mind, and thankfully remained unvoiced; Daryl already thought of him as a kid – but all he could find within him was amusement. And a small sad helping of pity.

He crossed his arms, leaned back against the wobbly sink, his sore thumb suddenly all but forgotten. “Fine,” he said.

Daryl whipped a hand through his hair, stopped his pacing to glare at him. “What the fuck?” he snarled out. “Why would you…? What the FUCK?”

Glenn shifted, heard the taps rattle behind him. Why would he? Only because he’s been dreaming about Daryl for weeks. Only because he’s seen the way Daryl looks at him when he thinks no one is watching. Only because _Daryl kissed him first_. He shrugged. “Look,” he said, “calm down. Sexuality is fluid.”

“There ain’t nothin’ ‘fluid’ about my sexuality, all right? I like women! You got that, chinaman? WOMEN.”

“Better keep your voice down,” Glenn said mildly. He watched Daryl glance wild-eyed at the covered window as he ripped a hand again through his hair, corkscrewing it in a dozen different directions. Glenn shoved his cap back out of his eyes before he pushed off from the sink and held out his hands. “Look,” he tried again, “all I’m saying is that the Kinsey scale proves that no one registers as completely straight or completely gay. I like men _and_ women. There’s nothing wrong with that—“

“There’s a fuckload wrong with that, chinaman, and—“

“You _know_ I’m Korean,” Glenn bit out, “so drop the _fucking act_.” He heard his own voice rising, clamped down on it with an effort. He shook his head, feeling suddenly weary, and met Daryl’s eyes. “Just drop it,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to chase you. I’m not going to beg you for it, or crawl after you like some puppy. I have too much self-respect for that. But I’m not going to let you belittle it, either, or tell me that there’s something _wrong_ with the way I feel. I came to terms with my sexuality a long time ago. If you want to live in denial, it’s no fucking skin off my nose. You can lie to yourself all you want, Daryl. Just don’t think you can lie to _me_.”

He really thought Daryl was going to punch him. He saw Daryl’s hands clench into fists, the muscles in his arms bunch in preparation for the swing. He prepared himself for a bloody nose and a black eye, wondered how they’ll explain the injuries to the others when they get back to camp tomorrow night. Then Daryl’s body relaxed, and Glenn released his held breath.

“You got balls,” Daryl said. He turned away, began shoving items back into the duffel bag. “Chinaman,” he added lightly.

Glenn knew he shouldn’t do it, his mother always told him he took things too far and never knew when to shut his mouth, but he couldn’t resist. “Glad you noticed,” he said.

Daryl’s back stiffened just slightly and his hands faltered for a moment before he resumed reloading the backpack. Glenn grinned and scored a point for himself on his mental scoreboard.

When Daryl turned back to the room and planted his hands on the counter at his back, the pose only served to highlight the long lean lines of his body, the muscles flexing in his arms as he rocked slightly back and forth. Glenn had no idea if he was doing it deliberately or not, but the effect was the same either way. Glenn’s mouth went a little dry, and he imagined walking purposefully across the room, running his hands slowly up Daryl’s torso, feeling the muscles jump and quiver under his touch. He imagined popping the buttons on Daryl’s shirt slowly, one by one, spreading the material away to reveal warm flesh, leaning down to lick a path across that silken skin. And then—

“Wanna play cards?” Daryl asked, jutting his chin toward the table.

“Huh?” Glenn blinked. He licked his lips, stared blankly at the other man before he finally noticed the battered deck of cards in Daryl’s hand and shook his head. “Oh,” he answered. “No. I’m exhausted.”

It wasn’t a lie. The long day combined with the aborted kiss and resulting conversation had worn him out. He appreciated the effort that Daryl had made to ask, though; hoped it showed in his smile. “Thanks, though.”

Daryl lifted a shoulder, looked anywhere but directly at him. But at least they were talking. At least he wasn’t going home with a broken nose. At least he’d made Daryl think.

“Why don’t we just go to bed,” he said. When Daryl’s eyes widened, he huffed out a breath. “Separate beds,” he clarified. “I’ll take the sofa.”

“No,” Daryl said after a long moment. “You take the bed. You’re the one with the _gruesome injury_.”

Glenn glanced at his thumb. In the darkness he could hardly see the scratch, and the throbbing was almost gone. “It really did hurt,” he mumbled. But he didn’t argue, just flopped onto the lumpy mattress and sighed in contentment. His stomach rumbled, but he didn’t care. He had a bed. And hopefully tomorrow when they checked all the traps they’d set, there’d be squirrel stew for dinner. Maybe even venison. A boy could dream.

He was lost in imagining the looks on the faces of Rick and the others if they managed to make it back to camp with both a buck and a string of squirrels when he heard Daryl shift on the sofa.

“Goin’ on another hunting trip next week,” Daryl said in the silence.

Glenn stared blindly at the wooden beams that crisscrossed the ceiling, barely discernable in the gloom. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Daryl repeated mockingly. Glenn waited a moment, but when nothing more was forthcoming he shifted onto his side and closed his eyes. He was coasting toward sleep when Daryl’s voice drifted softly out of the shadows. “You can come along if you want.”

Glenn allowed himself a small smile. “Sounds good to me,” he said.


End file.
